Page 26 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
He must be pissed.
“Where's Gaz?” I ask, blinking and dropping my hands into my lap, trying to pretend like my heart isn't racing so fast that I feel like I might puke. Fem presses his head hard against me, offering comfort that isn't laced with innuendo, like Beast's.
I push his hands away from me and reach up to touch my face.
Good.
I didn't cry.
I don't cry. Not anymore.
“He left to cool his head,” Beast responds carefully, his accent thick and hot and sticky. I want it all over me, that voice. I want to bathe in it, let it fill all the cracks inside my heart. But I know that if I do, I'll regret it. That sort of comfort is just temporary. It makes you feel so goddamn good and then it dissipates, like dandelion fluff in the wind. Or like blood down a pool drain. “You alright there, sugar?” he asks, and the word sugar just calms me down like nothing else. It reminds me of Reba and makes me forget for a second that I hate Beast.
“I'm fine,” I choke, standing up and feeling my knees get weak.
Beast catches me before I can fall, my palms hitting the leather of his cut, my head spinning from the musky masculinity of his scent. The spicy tang of bergamot nectar mixed with orange blossoms, patchouli, musk. It's a rush of sensory overload that turns my already weak limbs to jelly.
As smooth as a sailor, he picks me up like I weigh nothing.
“Fem,” I say sternly as he growls, pulse thundering, body rebelling against me. Such a traitor. Such a fucking traitor. She wants Beast inside of her almost as much as I wish I could get away from him.
He sets me down on the edge of the mattress, but doesn't move back. Instead, his calloused fingers find the bruises on my arms, these purple-yellow splotches left by Gaz's hands. He even clawed up my skin with his rough, blunt nails.
Most importantly though: he hit my fucking dog.
“I'm gonna kill him,” I snarl through gritted teeth, jerking my arms away from Beast's surprisingly gentle touch. “I'm gonna fucking blow his balls off.”
“I'll give him a talkin' to,” Beast tells me which actually gives me pause. A talking to from Beast is … well, like getting your face slammed into concrete. Literally. Basically, there's not much talking at all.
“Will you tell Cat?” I ask, but the enforcer of Death by Daybreak MC just stares me in the face, runs a hand over his beard, and stands up. “I'll tell Cat,” I say, because I will. But I know that he'll let his officers handle it, that he won't say or do a damned thing to control his son.
Problem is, if I tell Cat about Gaz, we'll have to talk about the lake, too. Then again, there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell he doesn’t already know about that.
“I'll be downstairs,” Beast tells me as I check Fem for injuries. I don't see anything, but his head got hit hard. I want to take him to the vet. This is one thing that I will happily spend my dad's blood money on. “You need anything?”
“Get out,” I tell him because I don't have a lot of fight left in me. Every second, minute, every hour that I fight my desires, I start to lose a little. My self-control bleeds away like the blood from my sisters' bodies.
My mouth tightens.
“Out,” I repeat, but my hands are on Beast’s vest, clenching tight. “Get out of my room.”
There's a long moment of silence.
“Will you take me and Fem to the vet? I want to get him checked out.”
The words are hushed, quiet, breathy.
Beast slides his hands down my arms and then takes a step back.
“I'll follow you,” he drawls, turning away and leaving me with this tingling warmth in my body that refuses to dissipate for hours.
Hours.
Hours I suffer in sticky, unrelenting lust coupled with a migraine.
I hate my life.The next morning, I wake up before anyone else, even Cat, and get ready for a camping trip—Gidget style. I shower and blow my hair out, turning the crow-black strands into one glossy sheet of darkness. My eye makeup is thick and hazy, a deliciously wicked cat eye that makes my irises seem more red than brown. Lips—as red as the red, red fucking rose.
When I'm done, I dress in lingerie, leather pants, a Harley tank and a motorcycle jacket.
Fuck you, Cat, I think as I check myself out in the mirror. Fuck you, Gaz.
After I get back from the trip, I'll probably be chained to my bed. But if I'm going to get busted by Cat, I may as well go all the way, break every rule.
I live for breaking rules.
“Come on, Fem,” I say, grabbing my backpack and opening my bedroom window.
